


Michen

by Island_of_Reil



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Burns, Canonical Character Death, Daggers, Death Threats, Gen, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, Loyalty, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Vomiting (brief)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 19:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5678047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He wonders how many foxes lie unmourned in the stony soil of Eshoravee, and how many would still walk in the world had one of them had the means, the will, the chance, and the courage. He will not fire the pistole just for them. He cannot; his duty is to His Serenity, above all. But the goddesses might permit him, in serving His Serenity, to save a few foxes as well.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flint

He knew the moment he saw Tethimar’s letter, and he knew it in a place far below the busy cogs and gears of his brain. Courier’s intuition couldn’t guarantee safety when one was out of the dormitory, out in the world. That also took speed, common sense, and — most crucially — luck. But it could give one an advantage.

Now, in his small and orderly chamber, the door locked as it only ever is when he changes clothes or washes, Csevet kneels and draws out a small box from beneath his bed. For its size, it is surprisingly heavy.

“Privacy for our needs,” indeed. In the courier fleet, he could always steal away to tryst with a lover, or lovers. Far harder to find was a secret and secure hiding place for his possessions. Though he spoke true when he told His Serenity that most couriers are honest, it takes but one thief to ruin a dormitory. He esteems this chamber with its locking door above a hundred trysting-spots.

Quietly he clicks each dial to the correct digit. His birthday, his mother’s birthday, the birthday of the little sister who died before her naming-day. Each soft _snick_ registers deep within him like a second heartbeat, soft and resounding at the same time, and profoundly intimate.

In its velvet cradle, the pistole lies. Csevet settles the weight of it in his palms, admires the intricate scrollwork that ornaments the stock and barrel. He has not taken it from the lockbox in a few years. He will need to clean and oil it, to obtain patches and powder and rounds of ball. Many rounds of ball. It takes but one well-placed shot to fell a man, but it takes many more before one can place that shot well.

He will not have much time to practice before the Winternight Ball. And, then, he will like as not have only one chance.

*

He bought the pistole nearly ten years ago. One night nearly ten years ago, he awoke drenched in sweat, and the doctor declared his bronchine cured. Every night for the following fortnight, he awoke drenched in sweat, and though his voice was still a croak, he knew it was not the illness still afflicting him.

Assiduous saver though he was, still he needed to beg additional coin from his two closest friends. Then, on his off-day, he stole down to the old market in the oldest neighborhood of Cetho, to the stall of a middle-aged Barizheise trader reputed to be able to procure the unprocurable. At the time, almost no one but soldiers carried gonnes instead of rapiers; even now, few do. The trader had never seemed overly troubled by law or rule, but he cast sharp orange eyes on Csevet and said, _You know how to shoot? Is not toy, michen. Is weapon._

Csevet, who had not yet attained his full height and whose voice still cracked on occasion, stared back at the man with cold adolescent umbrage. _We are no michen, Osmer; and, yes, we know how to shoot._ Rough as his voice was from the bronchine, it did not crack, not that time. The trader held his gaze coolly for several more seconds, then shrugged, took his coins, and sold him the pistole along with a tin of powder and a small sack of shot.

He had, in fact, lied; he had not known how to shoot. But he knew another courier who did, an older man who’d been a soldier. At first, Totha had been appalled that his _far_ -too-young colleague would buy such a terrible instrument. Then had come the martyred resignation. _If you insist on having the blasted thing, michen — don’t argue with us, a michen is precisely what you are — we’d druther you not take your own fingers off your hand with it._ Under his tutelage, Csevet learned how to prime the pan. How to load the shot. How to hold his arm steady. How to take aim. How to brace himself against the kick. Not infrequently, pride at Csevet’s quick study broke through Totha’s put-upon mien.

Every off-day for the next six months, Csevet rode out into the wilds between Cetho and Lohaiso, where few would hear and none would be harmed. Soon he was taking down small game, selling it for meat and hides. It allowed him to repay his debts, but it was merely a bonus. If his lovers wondered where he’d gone, perhaps they assumed that Eshoravee had robbed him of desire. If so, they were not wrong. Not entirely.

After the first month, he no longer woke up drenched in sweat.

Csevet knew it would not have saved him at Eshoravee. No courier lives long who kills a highborn lord. But he could have removed Eshevis Tethimar from the world, maybe a few of his hounds as well, before taking the very last ball himself. No matter what the Tethimada claimed afterward, Csevet’s friends would have known the truth.

He wonders how many foxes lie unmourned in the stony soil of Eshoravee, and how many would still walk in the world had one of them had the means, the will, the chance, and the courage. He will not fire the pistole just for them. He cannot; his duty is to His Serenity, above all. But the goddesses might permit him, in serving His Serenity, to save a few foxes as well.

*

An imperial secretary enjoys many luxuries a courier could but dream of — a secure chamber, finer clothes, to be called “Mer Aisava” instead of “courier boy” or “thou, there” or any of a hundred terms throwing his parentage and his honor into question. One luxury Csevet no longer enjoys is sufficient time to himself. It has never bothered him until now; he thrives in His Serenity’s presence like a green shoot in the sun. But to never know when the Emperor might need him, even in the middle of the night, does not permit rides out into the wilds to practice his aim.

He considers asking an Untheileneise Guardsman if he might know of a spot in Cetho, other than the proving ground only soldiers may use, where he might do so without risking harm to others. He discards the idea as soon as it occurs to him. The only soldiers he trusts not to gossip are Captain Orthema or Lieutenant Beshalar, and to ask either man would be to alarm him unduly.

 _For it is their jobs, to be alarmed on behalf of His Serenity,_ a quiet inner voice tells him. _Why dost not simply tell Beshelar of thy suspicions, then leave the matter to him and Cala, who surely can defend Edrehasivar better than couldst thou?_

 _Because they will not believe me,_ he replies silently in despair. Though there is no draft in the Tortoise Room, the letter he holds in his right hand flutters.

 _Why should they not, when throughout the Emperor’s coterie thou’rt considered sensible and not given to alarm?_ And when Csevet has no reply to this, the voice continues with maddening calm: _Thou simply wish’st for thy vengeance upon Eshevis Tethimar. Is thy life that unbearable without it? Is’t not good enough for thee to wear the Drazhadeise device on silk and fine wool, to sleep in the Alcethmeret, to have the ear of the Emperor, to no longer need dodge the groping hands of lecherous lords?_

Anger simmers to a boil beneath his ribs. _I’ll allow, I have no desire to tell the story of Eshoravee to Orthema, or to remind Beshelar of it. But I cannot approach them and say I fear Tethimar means His Serenity ill, and provide no evidence beyond my own intuition._

_Yet thou’lt prepare thyself to put a ball in Tethimar’s head or breast based on no more than thine own intuition._

Csevet does not realize how tight a fist he has clenched until he feels the sting of his own fingernails in his left palm. He relaxes that hand and balefully eyes the deep red crescents that mark the flesh.

And then he realizes that his long lacquered nails, which His Serenity has complimented him on several times, which Csevet intended to be perfect for the Winternight Ball, must be trimmed short if he is to take up the pistole again.


	2. Striker

Gonnes remain rare enough that the city fathers have not overly bothered to regulate how and where they may be discharged. The sum of the relevant law is that one take reasonable care not to endanger those in one’s vicinity. Csevet has racked his dimmed memories of Cetho’s less-savory neighborhoods for a place to practice that will meet this requirement while affording him some privacy. He decides at last to scout out the riverfront. Shot is not cheap, but better a stray ball disappear into the water than into another person.

He walks south of the Untheileneise Court, toward the Istandaärtha’s confluence with the Maratha. Despite the brightness of the sun, the air is bitter and the wind off the eastern river lacerating. Csevet could probably carve slices off his own breath with a knife. But he is grateful for the cold. It is an excellent excuse to wear a heavy knit cap over his head, one with openings for eyes, nose, and mouth. It is uncomfortably tight over his pinned-up braids and forcibly flattened ears, but — along with the cleated boots and heavy coat that see couriers through the Elflands’ harsh winters — it renders him invisible. His gloves are too thin for this weather, but they are his compromise between dexterity and protection from windburn.

His rucksack, another souvenir of his past, is weighted down with pistole and ramrod. It also carries a dozen chipped or cracked cups or bottles that he has salvaged from the discards of the kitchens. Fit and in his prime though he is, his back has not borne such a load in months, and it does not cavil to tell him so. _Thou’st grown soft,_ says the inner voice, with detached amusement. Csevet cannot argue with this, and so he does not.

Here, today, the only others out and about are a handful of equally bundled-up longshoremen carting materials between a barge and a warehouse. Csevet has nearly passed them when he spots, sitting almost on the lip of the riverbank, what he had hoped to find: a half-smashed wooden crate. He walks to it and picks it up, examining it. It is still intact enough for his purposes. He darts a backward glance at the stevedores, but none of them seem to take any notice of him, not even their foreman. With a shrug of his mind he hooks an unbroken slat under his arm and continues south.

As the terrain becomes marshier, the warehouses give way to taverns, dicing parlors, and brothels. Before long even these give way to open land. The layers of mud, snow, and ice beneath the spiked soles of Csevet’s boots are so solid they barely crunch. He has not walked all the way to the actual confluence before he sees not a soul about him. The wind could make aiming a bit of a challenge, he thinks, but on the other hand the reports of the shots will disappear into its continual hiss and keen.

He walks onto a broad, flat spit of land projecting west into the Istandaärtha. At its far end, he sets the crate down on the icy mud, where it sits level enough that he has no trouble balancing a piece of crockery atop it. Then he turns and counts off the paces back to where the spit of land begins: almost precisely one hundred. More than enough. And with the wind at his back at that.

The pistole’s scrollwork gleams in the sun. Csevet had forgotten what a beautiful thing the gonne is. When first he acquired it he did not give a damn for its form, only its function. Now he holds it up to admire not merely the ornamentation, but how the design of the pistole marries solidity with grace.

The mechanism, in particular, is an elegant bit of modern innovation, making the pistole compare with an old-fashioned hand cannon as an airship compares with a horse-drawn cart. Totha’s gruff voice, full of more enthusiasm than ever he would have admitted to, comes back to Csevet across the vale of years. _The topmost piece is called the cock, michen. And it does look a bit like a rooster, don’t it? If you squint, the handle-ring could be the comb, and the “beak” is what clamps the flint. Now, the piece a bit more toward the front that’s all angles, that’s the striker, and that’s the clever part. It covers the pan, so the wind won’t scatter your powder or the rain soak it, while at the same time it gives the flint aught to strike against._

With the small but wicked blade he has kept in his right boot since well before Eshoravee, Csevet has knapped the sand-colored flint to a fine, sharp edge. He’s had to replace its tiny jacket of leather that keeps it snug in the cock’s beak, but securing the requisite scrap from the Master of Wardrobe’s apprentices was even simpler than securing targets from the kitchens.

The apprentices were also generous with their scraps of linen. The thinness of Csevet’s gloves pays off as he fishes one of a few dozen well-greased linen squares from the cheap leather pouch that lines the left hip pocket of his coat. Odors don’t carry well in the dry air, but the fatty pungency of sheep tallow, sweetened only slightly by its admixture of beeswax, pricks at his nostrils.

From the right hip pocket he takes a ball from the sack of shot, and from his rucksack he takes the wooden dowel of the ramrod. The patch flutters in the sharp breeze as he centers it over the bore of the muzzle. A moment later the ball is centered over it in turn, weighing it down into the barrel. Csevet pushes it further in with his thumb, then carefully seats it with the ramrod. His hands, independent of his mind, remember the precise pressure: no more than a few pounds’. The old ink mark on the side of the dowel falls perfectly flush with the edge of the bore.

It’s harder to keep the wind from tearing the quill out of his hand than it was to hold onto the patch, but Csevet gets the end of it into the touch-hole and closes the striker down upon it. Pouring the powder is even trickier. His lean figure makes a poor windbreak, so he hunches over a bit, hugging the pistole to his chest with his forearm while tugging the cork out of the tiny vial. Some of the dust-fine grains scatter to the ground, but mostly they go into the little depression of the pan, which is smaller than the last joint of Csevet’s small finger. He clicks the striker down over the pan before more of them can fly away.

Gently, he taps the heel of his hand against the barrel to settle the powder. Then he removes and repockets the quill. And all that’s left to do is to cock the gun, and to take aim.

Just as his hands have retained the lesson of how to seat the shot, so do his eyes slip easily back into the trick of lining up the notch in the stock with the tiny post at the bore. Csevet has always focused well, even in the din of crowds or the maelstrom of a dozen petitioners all seeking his attention at once. Here, with no one and nothing about him but the leeching cold and the sucking wind, he goes well beyond focus into meditation, as if the little piece of baked and chipped clay standing on the crate one hundred paces away were an icon of Salezheio.

He’s no sooner jerked the trigger back than the flint scrapes down the face of the striker. A shower of white sparks follows, then the hot orange burst of combustion. Even in the frigid air, the heat is uncomfortably close and strong. Csevet’s arms jerk up with the kick as the ball flies — past the cup by several inches and into the river.

Csevet, who long ago broke himself of the habit of cursing, curses. And then the inner voice says, _Thou’st not fired the gonne in two, perhaps three years. Didst expect to hit thy mark with the very first ball?_

 _Point conceded,_ he thinks with a rueful amusement.

He reloads, reprimes, recocks, reaims. Again. And again. And again. On the sixth shot, he blows the handle off the cup and sends the rest of it spinning into the river.

 _Not bad, michen,_ says not the inner voice this time but Totha, speaking across the years. Csevet idly thinks he should try to see what’s become of the old soldier-turned-courier, buy him a round of drinks if he’s still alive and in Cetho.

Time and again, as patient as if he has until the end of the world and not just until the Winternight Ball, Csevet walks out to the end of the spit, sets a new piece of battered crockery on the crate, walks back, and takes aim. It takes fewer and fewer shots to hit the target. The last three he shatters with the very first ball.

He stretches. Then he sets both cock and striker backward, rendering the pistole safely inert, and returns both it and the ramrod to the rucksack. The sun has begun to drowse down against the Istandaärtha’s opposite bank, though it is still well before the dinner hour.

The thought of dinner makes Csevet’s belly growl. As he walks back up the eastern bank of the great river, he remembers the game he shot in the woods outside Lohaiso, remembers roasting it over an open fire and tearing into it and letting the grease drip down his chin and onto his shabbiest clothes. He remembers, too, cleansing himself meticulously in a nearby stream, mortified at the thought of even his closest friends seeing him look like an unwashed backwoodsman. And he regrets, just for a moment, that he will probably never again have the leisure to taste the fruits of his own hunt.

Not that kind of hunt, in any case.

The wind has whisked most of the sulfurous stench of gunpowder off him by the time he reaches a rear door of the Untheileneise Court. Nonetheless, before he approaches the guards, he stuffs gloves as well as cap into his pockets. Though he shivers at the cold, the flying buttresses of the Court’s architecture protect him somewhat from the winds. He hopes the guards do not mention his rucksack to Captain Orthema in their nightly reports, but he does not perceive that they take anything amiss from his appearance.

After a quick wash and a change of clothes, he takes his dinner in the kitchens with Echelo Esaran, Ebremis, several of the kitchen servants, and a courier who has ridden from Ashedro. It is warm, cozy, and convivial, with a modicum of gossip that will not offend the proprieties of either the strict steward or the grandfatherly chef. Echelo observes briskly that Csevet needs to eat more, and Ebremis agrees. Csevet brushes them off with a murmur of demurral and a blush at their solicitousness.

“He doesn’t wish to lose his boyish figure,” one of the kitchen boys says, not maliciously but with a puerile snigger. A broadly built manservant in his thirties reaches out to cuff him across the top of his head, exasperated affection mixed in with his disapproval. The boy half-ducks and grins, then turns to Csevet and says earnestly despite his mischievous grin, “No offense meant, Mer Aisava.”

“None taken,” Csevet says with equanimity, and he wonders what all of them would make of the sight of him with pistole in hand, shattering cup after cup with a single shot.

Before he retires for the night, he joins the Emperor and one of the undersecretaries in the Tortoise Room, the nohecharei at their unobtrusive posts in the rear. Edrehasivar would not begrudge him waiting until the morrow, but Csevet prefers to have a summary of the day’s events to sleep on, that he can be better prepared to handle any possible sequelae in the morning.

He wonders, briefly, why the Emperor is staring intently down at the letter Csevet holds in his hand when there is nothing amiss about the letter. “Csevet,” Edrehasivar says then, a note of concern in his voice. “We do not wish to pry, but we see you are wearing kidskin gloves, and we infer that you have trimmed your fingernails that the gloves might fit your hands. We were under the impression you were growing your nails out for the Winternight Ball.”

“We closed a finger in a door last night, Serenity,” comes the ready, practiced lie, and Csevet even remembers to pinch his features as if in remembered pain. “The nail broke over the nailbed. We felt it would be wise to trim the other nails and don gloves, so as to protect the wound dressing and to minimize attention drawn to the injured finger.”

The Emperor winces in sympathy. “That is probably a wise decision. And certainly gloves are not out of place in this weather, even indoors. So much of the Untheileneise Court is underheated.”

“Indeed they are not out of place, Serenity,” Csevet agrees, and deliberately he changes the subject to the details of the Clocksmiths’ Guild and their plans for the bridge over the Istandaärtha. Though the brightness of the Emperor’s eyes whenever the topic arises never fails to warm Csevet, the warmth is now mitigated by a chill undertow of guilt.

_We hope, Serenity, we never need must lie to you again to protect you._


	3. Ball

A dancer, like a courier, must be swift, agile, and attentive to others. Csevet does not dance often, but he has known how to dance since childhood, and he dances quite well. Even in a well-padded formal dinner jacket that descends to mid-thigh, the right hip pocket heavy with his self-imposed burden and a counterweight sewn into the left.

That burden breaks no laws. It does, however, break rules. It is frowned upon for any but the Untheileneise Guard to carry weapons in the Untheileian, and a sign by the entranceway politely suggests that all others leave with a Guardsman any weapons they may have _accidentally_ brought along with them. But to pat down every lord, much less every lady, who enters its doors would be politically untenable. Tonight, it would be logistically untenable as well. Even in the wake of the attempted coup by Princess Sheveän and Ulevis Chavar, Captain Orthema has told the Emperor he sees no way to ensure a Winternight Ball completely free of unauthorized blades. He did not mention gonnes. Csevet doubts the captain has even considered them.

Throughout the dancing, Csevet gallantly offers his arm to a variety of girls and women, ranging from a few of the pneumatic workers to Arbelan Drazharan. The late emperor’s first wife is perhaps the most enjoyable of his dance partners, her age not hindering her movements in the slightest and her banter as quick and lively as her step. Csevet knows of her fondness for the Emperor, and she knows how Csevet has guided Edrehasivar’s steps from the moment he prostrated himself in Edonomee. He regrets that their respective stations would never permit a friendship between them, but such regrets are an inevitable part of life at court.

When the dance ends, he relinquishes her hand with a deep bow. She scandalizes no few people around them by dropping him an exquisitely formal curtsey before turning away. Csevet cannot repress a laugh of delighted surprise. As Arbelan drifts away and the applause for the musicians dies down, he hears a deep, warm voice behind him say, “Mer Aisava.”

He spins abruptly on his heel. “Mer Reshema!” he exclaims, giving voice to the new blossom of pleasure in his breast and not at all to his utter startlement at seeing the man here. _What was Nethenel **thinking,** bringing him to this ball?_ The count, true to form, probably wasn’t thinking at all. Loyal subjects, the Nethenada, but not clever ones.

Reshema bows to Csevet, then fixes him with his brilliant orange gaze and a smile to match. “We regret that it would likely scandalize the entire court were we to ask you to dance. You acquit yourself quite well on the dance floor. In any event we’re sure you’ve promised the next half-dozen dances to others.”

Csevet laughs, and it’s partly in relief. His acquaintance with Reshema is neither a long nor a thorough one, and he was not entirely sure the courier was not a match for Nethenel in reckless daring. “We keep such promises scant and light, in case His Serenity has sudden need of us. However, we agree that the two of us dancing together would not be the wisest course of action. Might we ask you to join us for a glass of wine instead?”

“Certainly,” Reshema replies, and they move off toward one of the refreshment tables. The musicians leave off their tuning and strike up a stately mid-tempo number. As it is ideal neither for romantic slow dancing nor for showing off one’s acrobatic prowess, many other dancers drift off the floor toward the refreshments.

As if of one mind, Csevet and Reshema both draw up to the bowl in which the wine is most watered. The servant behind it holds out a freshly filled glass to each of them. “Our thanks,” Reshema says in the plural.

As he sips, Csevet asks, “How go your duties these days?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Reshema replies as Csevet sips in turn. “Other than the weather, which has been most bitter, and so early in the season at that. We are rather relieved that for the time being many of our duties take us to Barizhan, where the air is a bit milder, and that we are seldom north of Thu-Tetar.” More revelers who are waiting this dance out begin to cluster about the refreshment table. “Shall we give them a modicum of space?” Reshema asks. With an assenting nod, Csevet follows him to a spot closer to the wall where fewer stand.

Courier gossip is enjoyable of its own accord, but it is also a rich vein of information. Reshema, like Csevet, is not given to spreading titillating slanders, nor to divulging that which is not his to divulge. However, one can note the political significance in the ostensibly non-political tidbits he passes along — road conditions, new ownership of one hostel or another, who has left the fleet thanks to fortune good or ill — as well as in the various things he does not say at all. Csevet, in turn, paints a broad picture for Reshema of the state of affairs at the Untheileneise Court. Many of its particulars, however, he renders in the abstract or with his own silence, protecting himself and others as he sees meet. 

Perhaps fifteen minutes have gone by, and Csevet finds himself almost — almost — missing the open road, when he hears a good-humored voice call out, “Ah, there thou art.” Their heads turn to acknowledge the young, narrow-faced man heading in their direction. His clothing is very well made but several seasons out of date.

“Count Nethenel,” Csevet says, holding his glass carefully as he executes the degree of bow required for minor nobility.

Nethenel, taking Reshema’s arm, peers at Csevet. “You are Edrehasivar’s secretary, are you not?”

“We are, Osmer. We were already acquainted with Mer Reshema, and we thought to renew that acquaintance briefly.”

“It is a good time of year to renew acquaintances,” Nethenel agrees amiably. “And may the reign of Edrehasivar VII bring us all many more years in which to renew them.” He raises his newly filled glass, and Reshema and Csevet raise their nearly emptied ones as well.

“A pleasure to speak with you, Mer Aisava,” Reshema says.

“The pleasure is all ours, Mer Reshema,” Csevet replies. “Count Nethenel,” he adds, sketching another bow. Then he turns about and makes his way back toward the throne, leaving the glass on a refreshment table, excusing himself repeatedly as he passes through the knots of people standing about or dancing — 

— and that is when he spots the head of Eshevis Tethimar, towering above all others as the lord stalks in Csevet’s direction. Tethimar does not excuse himself to anyone, not even those with whom he collides; he does not even look at them as he bears inexorably forward. The rest move instinctively out of his way.

Csevet’s blood freezes so hard in his veins he can feel it crack, and his ears all but wrap around the back of his head. He forces himself to calmness, to observation, and he then grasps that Tethimar has not spotted him at all. His midnight eyes, brimming with something that disquiets Csevet but which he cannot precisely decipher, are fixed on the spot where Nethenel and Reshema remain. 

His pulse pounds as if he were once again climbing up the switchbacked road to Eshoravee. But stronger than his fear is his need to learn Tethimar’s intent, for without that knowledge he cannot protect his Emperor. He turns around.

He does not return to precisely the same spot, keeping between it and himself four women in conversation and a tall potted evergreen sapling. He watches Tethimar stop short about six inches before Nethenel, who frowns, and Reshema, who wears the carefully neutral expression of one who does not understand what is about to unfold before him but does not wish to advertise that fact.

“Pazhis!” Remarkable, Csevet thinks, how so perfectly modulated a voice can so seethe with spite. “We hope you are enjoying yourself tonight, for you won’t be enjoying yourself much longer.” The four women cease to converse and stare at the three men.

“Eshevis, _please._ ” Though his ears draw in somewhat, Nethenel looks and sounds more irritated than afraid. “Don’t ruin the ball for everyone. Call us out in private, if you must.”

“Such discretion and decorum you’ve suddenly acquired,” Tethimar sneers. He looks Reshema up and down as a household steward might assess a slab of meat hanging nakedly in a butcher’s stall. Reshema’s neutral expression does not change; not even his ears flicker. And, as if Reshema were no more conscious than said slab of meat, Tethimar flicks his eyes dismissively from him back to Nethenel. “Enjoy your baseborn plaything, too, while you can. Your loyalties will cost you dearly, and soon.” 

With that, Tethimar spins on his heel and begins to push his way back through the crowd. Behind him he leaves Nethenel gaping, Reshema tightening his hand on his lover’s arm, and the four women whispering behind their fans as their wide eyes dart from Nethenel and Reshema to Tethimar and back again.

Csevet does not think, merely finds himself following in the broad wake Tethimar leaves behind. Those who have not already cleared Tethimar’s way move hastily out of Csevet’s, eyes wide and ears flat, and later he will wonder what expression he must have worn.

 _“Dach’osmer Tethimar,”_ he calls out, his voice a clarion over the music.

The scion of the Tethimada stops and turns again. Those cobalt eyes settle on Csevet, and they fill with what Csevet can only describe as an unholy, hungry joy. For an eternal, heart-stopping second, Csevet no longer stands in the glittering Untheileian in some of the finest clothes he’s ever worn, surrounded by what seems like half the Ethuveraz, but lies on a cold courtyard floor in grimy leathers, lip torn and stinging, surrounded by a slavering pack of two-legged hounds.

“Mer Aisava,” Tethimar says. His voice is like the softest velvet Edrehasivar has ever worn. And from that softness, Csevet knows, _knows,_ that Tethimar remembers him from Eshoravee.

It has been no more than a call and an answer, no insults exchanged nor challenges issued. Yet eyes have already begun to settle on them; Csevet can feel them prick at the back of his neck and at his temples. _His Serenity,_ he warns himself. _Do not disgrace His Serenity. Protect His Serenity._

“We ask that we may speak with you in private, Dach’osmer,” he says. If there is a shade too much sternness in his voice, aught that might draw more curious eyes upon him, at least it does not shake.

Tethimar’s gaze does not change, except perhaps to focus more intensely on Csevet. “Come with us, then,” he says, and moves toward the rear of the Untheileian. He does not slow his stride at all, forcing Csevet to take very long ones to keep up with him.

As Tethimar stalks into the servant’s entrance, he nearly knocks over a young girl carrying a tray of empty glasses. She catches her balance and the tray in time, then gapes in shock at his broad retreating back. Csevet gives her a nod of acknowledgment accompanied by an apologetic twist of his mouth. Then he follows the lord into a storeroom lit by a single gaslight. 

The globe of the light fixture casts eerie shadows over the well-stocked cupboards and the grain sacks on the floor. Tethimar shuts the door hard without quite slamming it and stands before it, blocking Csevet from leaving. He flashes Csevet a grin that is all teeth, and in the half-light he looks like nothing so much as a death’s head.

“Does our little fox regret the night of pleasure he fled, so long ago?” he all but croons.

Csevet’s hand was already in the right pocket of his jacket before Tethimar shut the door. His gloved fingertips caress the cold metal of the scrollwork, the broad butt of the stock. _You have taken care of us well all these years,_ the pistole seems to say to him, _and especially these last few weeks. We will take care of you in return._

From this he takes the courage to look Tethimar in those eyes that are gateways to the lowest realms of Ulis and say, “We are not your ‘little fox,’ Dach’osmer Tethimar. We are secretary to your Emperor, Edrehasivar VII. And we will not have you disrupt his birthday celebration with such scenes as you made with Count Nethenel — or with whatever else you may have planned.”

Tethimar looks stunned, as if a chair had spoken back to him in protest at his sitting on it. Then his eyes narrow. “Thou’rt naught but a jumped-up courier, Csevet Aisava, and one who has likely obtained thy current position by no talents other than those of thine arse and mouth.” He moves slowly toward Csevet, head high, shoulders thrust out, towering, menacing. “Wilt speak to us as a lowborn servant speaks to his betters, courier boy, or wilt suffer for it.”

And it is as though a switch has been thrown, like that which shoots a letter through a pneumatic tube or lifts an airship from the ground. The blood in Csevet’s veins is no longer frigid but boiling. His ears are still close to his head but erect. A hot bubble of air is rising in his chest, scalding his throat, and he wants to rend it with his teeth the way he rent the flesh of Tethimar’s forearm ten years before. He closes his teeth around the bubble, and from between them he hisses, “You have already made us suffer, Dach’osmer, more than you will ever know.”

“Glad to hear it,” Tethimar says jovially. Adder-fast, his hand flies out and strikes Csevet hard across the mouth.

Csevet stumbles, thrusting both hands out blindly; it is only by dropping to one knee that he can break his fall. He thanks all the goddesses that the blow does not return him again to the dog-fighting courtyard but fills him with hate, its tang as hot and coppery as the blood on his lips. When he makes to rise again, Tethimar’s powerful hand grips the knot of his braids, pulling his head up and back while forcing him to stay down. “Look’st good on thy knees, boy. Of course, thou’st had a great deal of practice at it.”

Tethimar’s other hand drops toward his own waist. Unbidden comes the thought to Csevet’s mind, as if a far more primal other had taken possession of it: _Please, Dach’osmer, take it out. Give our teeth aught to grind into besides one another._ But, rather than undoing the laces of his trousers, Tethimar’s hand slips into his hip pocket. No sooner does Csevet see a glint of silver than the stiletto is cold against the tightly stretched skin of his throat.

“We do not relish the thought of a bite mark on our prick,” Tethimar says smoothly. “Wilt take it out of our trousers with thy pretty white fingers and suck us off with thy pretty pink mouth, keeping thy teeth completely shielded. We will finish on thy face and hair. Thou’lt not be able to find a place to wash it off without other servants seeing thee — and, as a baseborn whore like thee knows, servants do like to talk.”

Csevet laughs bitterly as he slips his hand back into his pocket, which the shadows conceal from Tethimar. “Wilt kill me if I do not?”

Tethimar’s hand tightens in his hair. “Remember to whom thou speak’st, boy.”

“Very well. _You_ will kill _us_ if _we_ do not, _Dach’osmer?_ ” The title rings in the storeroom like the vilest courier profanity. “Do you truly wish to explain to the Untheileneise Guard how you and the Emperor’s secretary entered a storeroom but only you walked out of it alive? With your having made a scene with Count Nethenel in the Untheileian not five minutes before? We were surely not the only one who witnessed it.”

Csevet’s voice is hard and mocking, but terror has begun to seep back into him — and not of the man who stands over him. He’s never fired the pistole at such close range before, with the gonne not only out of his line of sight but flush against his skin. But Tethimar moves with frightening speed for his size, and Csevet does not trust he can pull the weapon from his pocket before the lord’s hand clamps down upon his wrist. _Salezheio Dachenzhasan, I beg you, give me aught but a choice between this man’s tender mercies and death by fire,_ he prays as his fingers fumble the quill out of the touch-hole and wrap loosely around the cock.

Tethimar snorts. “Nobody at court takes the Nethenada seriously, boy. They belong back in their Thu-Tetareise backwater, fussing over their damned bridge like the pedigreed peasants they are. Pazhis Nethenel lacks even the sense not to bring his own piece of courier arse to the Winternight Ball.” His hand in Csevet’s hair tightens. “As for thee? Many saw thee beckoning us to this tryst. Once a courier, always a courier. That ball-less hobgoblin on the throne evidently could not satisfy thy hunger for the prick of a real man. Or for a bit of rough play with daggers and blood, which turned out to be thy tragic undoing. Who will disbelieve us — and dare to speak it?”

“ _Edrehasivar_ will disbelieve you and dare to speak it,” Csevet grates out, raising his voice to conceal the click as he sets the cock of the pistole forward. _Please, Salezheio Dachenzhasan. Please._ “We have told him what you nearly did to us at Eshoravee. But Edrehasivar loathed you, Eshevis Tethimar, well before then.”

“By the time thou’rt found, _Edrehasivar_ will be emperor no more,” Tethimar sneers. He turns the stiletto just slightly, and as Csevet manages to angle the pistole upward he can feel the faint sting at his throat.

Then Tethimar’s hand falls still, and the tone of his next words pretends to thoughtfulness. “Then again, if art as skillful with thy mouth as we have heard, perhaps we’ll let thee keep thy post as secretary. We imagine thou look’st quite fetching when art trussed down spread-eagled and bare-arsed over a desk. Our hounds, most of whom are still alive and well, would surely agree.” He speaks with increasing breathlessness, and even as he angles the front of his trousers more squarely into Csevet’s face, Csevet can see the distension in the fabric grow. “Now get to the task thou’rt best at, fox, and be quick ab—”

Csevet does not send up a third prayer to Salezheio.

He will never be sure whether Tethimar actually uttered the last few syllables or whether they were swallowed up in the report of the pistole. The clatter of the stiletto against the floor is drowned out by the resounding thud of Tethimar’s fall.

The kick of the gonne sends Csevet sprawling backward, his shoulder blades slamming against the floor and the back of his head striking the edge of a cupboard. He barely feels either blow because burning agony has raced up the right side of his body from hip to breast. He forces himself to roll over onto that side to smother out any remaining embers, but he cannot stifle a cry as his own weight presses down upon his seared skin.

The door to the storeroom slams against the inner wall, and Csevet hears a shriek, young and feminine, that cuts off abruptly. He manages to raise his spinning head, and he sees the servant girl from earlier standing in the doorway with her hand clapped to her mouth. _“Help us,”_ he gasps.

It snaps her out of her shock and impels her to his side. She kneels and cries, “Mer Aisava? What—”

“He — he meant harm to His Serenity,” Csevet manages to get out. “And… to us. We defended ourselves. Please… we are burnt, find us aid.”

“Aid is here, Mer Aisava,” a deeper voice says as heavier footsteps resound against the floor. The manservant from the kitchens with whom Csevet dined drops to his knees opposite the girl. “Please, be calm. You are hurt and must remain still. We shall send for Doctor Ushenar.”

“Send for…. a nohecharis,” Csevet grits out from between his teeth. “Or… Captain Orthema.”

“We are here, Mer Aisava,” Cala Athmaza says from the doorway, and even through the haze of agony Csevet does not think he has ever heard the maza’s voice so grim. “We would have been by your side through all of this, but our hands were full, literally and figuratively, with Dach’osmer Ubezhar.”

The manservant, murmuring gravely sincere apologies, has the fallen stiletto in hand. Delicately, he attempts to cut away the powder-burnt fabric of Csevet’s jacket from one spot where it seems to have fused with his skin. Before a white-hot flare of pain burns consciousness away, Csevet’s last thought is that Cala’s revelation has left him entirely unsurprised.


	4. Report

He wakes in his own bed, and he takes inventory.

Someone has put him into his nightshirt. Beneath it his side still stings like it’s been flayed and doused with salt-water, but he can perceive that it’s been dressed. Possibly by Ushenar, hopefully by Kiru. Though his chamber is windowless and thus not drafty, the covers have been drawn up fully and tightly over him to keep him warm.

He reaches a careful hand to his throat and feels the thin line, fully closed up, where Tethimar’s stiletto drew his blood. There is a little knot at the back of his head, the flesh raw but cleansed. His shoulder-blades are a bit sore, but he dares not reach behind himself just now.

On the edge of his nightstand have been left a carafe and water glass, a candle, flint and steel, and, closest to him, a servant’s bell. Fearful of pushing himself upright without assistance, he reaches out and rings it.

Within ten seconds Cora enters, and something inside Csevet melts at the relief on the page’s face and the perking up of his ears. “How long have we been abed, Cora?”

“Two days, Mer Aisava. How do you feel?”

“In truth, like a side of beef left too long over the fire.”

Cora smiles. “We’ll fetch His Serenity — he’s been distraught for your sake.” And before Csevet can object, the boy is gone, the door closed behind him.

His Serenity and the nohecharei arrive but a few minutes after. The Emperor’s grey skin looks like ashes in a cold hearth. Beshelar looks like a storm cloud. Cala looks only marginally better than he did after Dazhis’s betrayal was revealed. Not a one of them has his ears above half-mast.

“Csevet,” the Emperor says, pulling up a chair by his bedside opposite the nightstand. “Lieutenant, please help Mer Aisava to sit up. Be careful not to pull at his dressings, as Kiru Athmaza warned us.”

“Serenity,” Csevet says hoarsely as Beshelar moves to his side. He has never had physical contact with the nohecharis before. Beshelar props a pillow behind Csevet and lifts him upward with as much ease as one would expect from an elite soldier, but also with a gentleness Csevet would not have expected. Once this is done, he steps back into place opposite Cala.

His Serenity takes Csevet’s hand in his. Csevet swallows, savoring the warmth of that bony grip, and studies his Emperor carefully. Edrehasivar’s difficulty in sleeping has never been more evident. Csevet hopes that is the only cause of the redness in his eyes. That, and of course the news of Tethimar’s and Ubezhar’s treachery.

“The Untheileneise Guard has possession of your pistole, Mer Aisava,” Beshelar says. There is a hard, angry edge to his voice, well beyond his normal sternness, that belies the gentle pressure of his hands on Csevet’s elbows and upper arms a moment before. “Presumably you will want it back.” He pauses a beat, then bursts out, using the plural, “Why did you not _tell_ us?”

“Lieutenant,” Edrehasivar reproves him mildly.

“It is our _job_ to protect His Serenity, Mer Aisava!” Beshelar continues as if the Emperor has not even spoken. “It was not _your_ job to train with a gonne like a common soldier, let alone to bring it to the Winternight Ball! Nor was it your job to lure that — that _animal_ into a hidden place where he could harm you!”

At the time he told Edrehasivar the story of his escape from Eshoravee, Csevet did not think much upon the fact that the nohecharei were there. They are always there, and they do not bear tales. But now it occurs to him that knowing what Tethimar almost did to him so long ago must have amplified their horror at what Tethimar almost did to him the other night. Taking refuge in formality and in appeal to their professional pride, he says without expression, “We are sorry to have overstepped our bounds, into the realm of your expertise.”

“To the lowest realms of Ulis with our ‘expertise,’” Beshelar snaps. “We are sworn to protect only His Serenity, not his secretary. But we could not protect His Serenity from grief were his secretary to be violated or murdered.” Then his voice loses the edge of belligerence, becoming almost woebegone, as he adds in the plural, “Nor ourselves.”

Edrehasivar lets several seconds go by, then says softly, “Our gratitude is profound, Csevet, that you have gone to such lengths to protect us. We could not have a more devoted secretary. Yet, we cannot disagree with Lieutenant Beshalar that you put yourself at unnecessary risk. We would not have you ever do so again. Our nohecharei are there for that purpose — and, just as you cannot replace them as those who guard us from injury or death, they cannot replace you as he who guards us from nearly all else.” The Emperor’s voice trembles faintly on his last words.

A fist of shame clenches within Csevet’s breast. “We are very sorry, Serenity,” he says, his voice now barely audible.

Another moment of awkward silence passes. Then Cala asks quietly, “What led you to assume this course of action, Mer Aisava? And why did you feel unable to tell us, or Captain Orthema, of your suspicions?”

Csevet takes a deep breath and fixes his eyes on the low ceiling. “When first we saw the letter that Dach’osmer Tethimar sent to His Serenity, offering him the putative refuge of Eshoravee, we were overcome with… with intuition. We had no proof which we could have taken to you or to Captain Orthema, let alone any proof strong enough to speak against the scion of the Tethimada. It was instinct, and instinct alone. That said, couriers live and die by their instincts. And when we were a courier, ours were… very well honed.”

He breathes in again and adds, “Though we had not practiced for a very long time, neither are we new to the firing of a gonne, and we did not acquire the pistole recently. We have had it in our possession since… for the last ten years.”

There is more silence. Beshelar’s jaw tightens, Edrehasivar’s lips twist, and Cala’s expression does not change at all. After a moment, the Emperor’s hand tightens around Csevet’s. Csevet wishes he could give a light squeeze in return, but he does not wish to presume that much. Finally he asks, “What is to be done with Dach’osmer Tethimar?”

“There is nothing more to be done with Dach’osmer Tethimar,” Beshelar says flatly. “Mer Celehar has finished with him.”

“Mer Cele—” Csevet’s words break off as realization rings through him. “Dach’osmer Tethimar is dead.”

“Quite dead,” Cala says. “The ball took him square in the heart. He was likely dead before he struck the floor.”

Csevet parts his lips to speak again, but no more words emerge. A profound coldness washes through him, as if he’s been cast into the deepest part of the Istandaärtha and fallen through the ice. Even his powder burns seem to go numb. His ears fall, and his hand in the Emperor’s begins to tremble.

“Csevet,” Edrehasivar says with concern, and that is before Csevet’s stomach buckles.

The Emperor ducks beneath the bed and comes up with the empty chamberpot in his hands. “Serenity!” Beshelar exclaims, shocked. Edrehasivar ignores him, places the pot on Csevet’s lap, and steadies a palm against his back.

Having eaten nothing in two days and not much on the night of the ball, all Csevet can bring up is reeking bile that scalds his throat. But his ribcage and belly do not cease their convulsions for a long minute, each one tugging at his scorched skin under the dressings. The Emperor waits patiently until the retching fit dies down, then sets the pot back under the bed and hands Csevet his handkerchief.

“Thank you, Serenity.” Csevet blots his stinging mouth and watering eyes on the cloth. He is profoundly grateful his Emperor has not elected to wipe his secretary’s face himself as if Csevet were a sick child.

“Will you be all right?” Edrehasivar asks.

“I… we are fine,” Csevet croaks as he sets the soiled handkerchief down on the nightstand and pours himself a glass of water. He would not say it is the greatest lie he has ever told, but he has not been this far from fine since he fled Eshoravee into the asphyxiating arms of the bronchine. “We apologize for our … our breach of composure.”

Beshelar’s voice is once again as hard and hot as flint upon striker. “You killed a man two nights ago, Mer Aisava. None but the worst can take a life and be unaffected by it — no matter how richly the death was deserved.” The edge of his voice frays a little on the last words. Csevet imagines the red edges of eyes that have been weeping. He can guess why Beshelar might speak in this manner, and at the same time he hopes he never learns the details of why. 

“If it would be of help to you, Mer Aisava,” Cala says after a few beats of silence, “the Athmaz’are employs a maza who is also a knight of Anmura. Among his duties is the psychic care of other mazei when they have had to take lives in the line of their duty. If you wish to take counsel with him, please let us know.”

“It is… very kind of you to offer such, Cala Athmaza,” Csevet says, his voice sounding hollow in his own ears as he stares down into the glass he has just emptied. “We will think on it, but at this moment we cannot give you an answer.”

“We did not expect one of you right away,” Cala says in a voice that one might burrow into for comfort.

Then Csevet remembers Cala’s words to him in the storeroom. “Dach’osmer Ubezhar,” he says, voice sharp and ears rising, and the fresh spurt of anger is almost a relief.

“Being held for questioning,” Beshelar says curtly. “As well as Duke Tethimel and Dach’osmer Veschar. And various others, including Aina Shulivar, Atho Narchanezhen, and Evrenis Bralchenar.”

“The Curneise airship workers?” Csevet’s head comes up so fast in his incredulity that his side throbs anew in protest. “They were collaborating with the Tethimada and the other lords?”

“They were,” the Emperor says, his voice empty and resigned. He takes his time explaining the details of the plot. He tells Csevet why Tethimar and his co-conspirators had not intended for the incendiary device aboard the _Wisdom of Choharo_ to kill Edrehasivar’s father and half-brothers — not immediately. And why Shulivar and _his_ co-conspirators had foiled them, thrusting Tethimar much further away from the throne than he’d stood before.

When he finishes, the chamber is silent for a long time. Csevet is not certain he does not wish it were twenty minutes ago, when the worst that troubled him was feeling hollowed out from the inside as if with industrial vitriol. He has seen and heard of many horrors in his life, but none of this degree that were wrought in the name of justice. Or that have, in their own way, actually _brought about_ a measure of justice — if one may truly call it “justice,” when so many died in its birthing. Csevet can set his mind to any number of highly complicated tasks, but to even begin to delve into that sort of moral accounting opens up a vast black void beneath his feet.

He has never been much more of a worshipper, either, than he has been of a philosopher. Unless you count fervent, spontaneous, quickly forgotten prayers to Salezheio that a storm not wash away the road behind him, or that he not encounter cut-purses in the woods, or that the servant’s stair to the rooftop be unlocked. And no courier counts those as worship. It is not often that Csevet envies His Serenity, whose burdens are equal only to the wounds in his soul. But at the moment he wishes nothing more than that he could spend an hour on his knees in the Mich’othasmeire and that a river of candlelight could wash his heart clean.

At last, he breaks the silence. “We do not know what to say to any of this, Serenity. Other than we are so very sorry you have endured one horrific trial after another in so short a time.”

“We have been… a bit discomfited ourselves,” Edrehasivar says, the understatement eliciting a soft snort from Cala. “Though, truly, those who suffer most are our people. We hope that rooting out this conspiracy and delivering swift justice to its architects will be like lancing and draining a wound, that it might heal cleanly and bring the Ethuveraz many years of peace and prosperity.”

“Let us pray that it be so,” Csevet says, and this time when Edrehasivar squeezes his hand, he dares give a squeeze back — one of comfort, he thinks. The Emperor smiles at him, benevolent and sweet. It will not balm Csevet for more than a few minutes, he thinks, but it will be more balm than any of them might enjoy in the months to come.


	5. Epilogue: Well Shot

The old market in Cetho has not changed much in the more than ten years since Csevet has last been to it. Most of the faces are different, buyers and sellers alike. There are more items that originated in the western factories; some are obviously used, while others seem to be new, discarded for imperfections and sold on the cheap. But no renovations have been made to the old wooden open-air stalls, nor to the canopy-like roof that keeps the rain and snow off them. The air still smells of roasted meats and chestnuts, of wine and metheglin, of herbs and spices, of perfumes and salves.

Csevet thinks he can catch the sharpness of gunpowder on the air for just a second. But when he flares his nostrils, it’s gone, or maybe it was never there at all. _Thou’st an overactive imagination,_ says the inner voice dismissively. Csevet once more declines to take up the argument.

He is at the same time surprised and not surprised to see the Barizheise trader in the same stall as before. The man’s hair and thick moustache are solidly white now, his face more heavily lined. When he catches sight of Csevet, he smiles a broad, congenial smile with no recognition in it whatsoever.

“Osmer,” Csevet says, unshouldering his rucksack. “Do you buy, as well as sell?”

“Would depend on what you wish to sell,” the man says neutrally. Csevet perceives that the orange eyes are assessing him, weighing the tattered old rucksack against the well-tailored new coat and hat, calculating how low a price he might offer Csevet at the outset of the bargaining without causing offense.

“An item you might recognize,” Csevet says. Taking the lockbox from the rucksack, he opens it to reveal the pistole within.

The trader falls silent. He looks from the pistole to Csevet and back, several times. Csevet almost hears the slow click of recognition. And then, far more abruptly, a thunderstruck look crosses the trader’s face. He recovers from it immediately, and he asks, almost casually, “Winternight?”

“Yes,” Csevet replies.

The trader does not respond for a long moment. His eyes remain on Csevet, and the click Csevet almost hears now is that of re-estimation. Csevet, who has faced down the Corazhas and Ulevis Chavar and Eshevis Tethimar, looks back at him without expression.

Finally, the trader names a figure. It is low, lower than what Csevet paid ten years ago, and prices have risen in the interim. Csevet finds himself unable to care. “Agreed,” he says.

One white brow rises on the dark face. “Is beautiful pistole. Works perfectly, too, would seem. You are not much of a bargainer.” The trader pauses, then adds, “Osmer.”

“We are no osmer, either,” Csevet says, his lips twitching without mirth. “While we appreciate your concern for our purse, our own concern is that we be — if you will pardon the expression — well shot of this damned thing forever.”

The trader nods. He looks, Csevet thinks, almost sad as he takes the pistole from the box and examines it to his satisfaction. Finally he nods again, replaces it in its velvet cradle, and counts out the coins from a small sack into Csevet’s gloved palm.

The money goes to various ends. A new set of tashin sticks. A court jacket for spring, which the farmers say will be a warm and pleasant one. A naming-day gift for the newborn child of an old friend, one of the two who lent him coin ten years before. And, some months and a fair number of questions asked later, dinner and drinks in a tavern in Cetho with an old soldier-turned-courier who ends the evening with a hard embrace of Csevet and the husky words, “Well done, michen.”

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to fill [my own kinkmeme prompt](http://tge-kink.dreamwidth.org/678.html?thread=31398#cmt31398). Thanks so much to the lovely and talented [shadow_lover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover) for beta’ing this for me.
> 
> The gun Csevet has in this fic is based on historical pistols with [miquelet locks](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miquelet_lock). The miquelet is a type of flintlock that emerged in the 1580s. How Stuff Works has [a basic rundown](http://science.howstuffworks.com/flintlock2.htm) of the science and mechanics behind flintlocks, plus a labeled diagram of one such lock. (Note that the part called a “striker” in this fic was historically more often known as the “frizzen.”) I obtained more details on how miquelet firearms were loaded and primed from [eHow](http://www.ehow.com/way_5844786_steps-loading-flintlock-pistol.html) and from [these](http://home.insightbb.com/~bspen/flintlockfaq.html) [three](http://woodsrunnersdiary.blogspot.com/2011/04/correct-way-to-load-flintlock-gun.html) [hobbyists](http://www.muzzleblasts.com/archives/vol4no4/articles/mbo44-2.shtml).


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